The Hedgehog's Dilemma
by tsukinoblossom
Summary: Or: The five times John went on terrible dates, and the one time he stayed home instead.
1. Chapter 1

_**I'd never written a 5-and-1 style story, and I was in the mood for some ridiculous UST and fluff. I need a break from drabbles and mind-reading alternate universes so here you have it.**_

_**A note on the title: "The hedgehog's dilemma, or sometimes the porcupine dilemma, is an analogy about the challenges of human intimacy. It describes a situation in which a group of hedgehogs seek to become close to one another in order to share heat during cold weather. They must remain apart, however, as they cannot avoid hurting one another with their sharp quills. Though they all share the intention of a close reciprocal relationship, this may not occur for reasons they cannot avoid."**_

_**So next time someone makes a joke and refers to John as a hedgehog, don't think of it as fandom crack - think of it as a pithy and insightful comment unto the nature of their relationship. ;)**_

* * *

1.

It's Friday night, and the scents of cologne and soap wafting from the shower are unfamiliar and obviously expensive. No case so far to keep John at Sherlock's side. A date, then. Sherlock stalks from his bedroom into the sitting room and throws himself onto the sofa, dressing gown fluttering around him.

He's lost in thought when John walks in, dressed in a new shirt and freshly shaved. His face looks so soft. Sherlock finds himself wondering what it would feel like under his fingers, and quickly shoves the thought aside.

"Enjoy your date, John." Even Sherlock's somewhat taken aback by how bitter his voice sounds.

"Everything all right, Sherlock?"

"Fine. Go away." Sherlock rolls over, exposing his long, narrow back to John, who looks discomfited for a moment before shrugging and leaving the flat.

After sulking on the sofa for a more-than-reasonable twenty minutes, Sherlock gets up and paces in front of the coffee table for a moment before heading into the kitchen to follow up on a couple of experiments. He sits down, fidgets for a moment, gets up. Gets a glass of water, stares at it, takes a sip, and pours it down the drain. Sits down again. Gets up, peers in the fridge.

_Come on, Sherlock. This isn't like you_. He shakes his head and sends his curls flying, trying to clear his mind. Every time he closes his eyes, though, he sees John. John laughing, John smiling at some insipid woman, John trying to coerce her to take just one more bite of her pasta.

"No!" Sherlock exclaims, to nobody in particular, slamming his hands on the kitchen table._ I'm the one he's supposed to be badgering to eat. This isn't right._

He's worked himself into a right tizzy, pacing the kitchen and rearranging his beakers ineffectually for so long he's entirely lost track of time. It's a bit of a shock, then, when he hears John's keys rattling in the door downstairs. Sherlock darts across the flat, throwing himself onto the sofa, his back to the world, the picture of disinterest. He does his best to pretend he doesn't care about John's date, but he can hear in the weary way John shuffles across the floor, the heavy way he sits down in his chair, the exhausted groan as he removes his shoes, that it did not go so well. Sherlock half-turns on the sofa, looking over his shoulder at his obviously drained and irritable flatmate.

"Good date then?"

John sighs, rubbing his face. "Thanks, Sherlock. Mockery from my best friend is exactly what I need right now." He's trying to sound sarcastic, but underneath it all, his comment sounds strangely genuine.

Sherlock sits up. "Want to..." he fusses with his dressing gown belt for a moment, unsure about how to continue. "Want to talk about it?"

John's jaw drops, as though of all the things he's expecting from Sherlock, sympathy and an understanding ear are nowhere near the top of the list.

"Not much to talk about, really. She was a lovely woman, very pretty, seemed intelligent enough."

Sherlock does his best to stifle a scowl - only one person is intelligent enough for John - but nods for John to continue.

"Things were going great until she brought up the military. Apparently," he cringes, slumping further into the plush comfort of his armchair. "anyone who willingly joins the Army is a 'clueless idiot with a death wish and no respect for indigenous cultures'."

In one fluid motion, Sherlock sweeps across the room, perching on the arm of John's chair. Awkwardly, he pats John's arm.

"She's an idiot. You know that, right? What you did, what your fellow soldiers did..."

John turns, craning his head to look up at Sherlock, and in doing so, shifts his arm so suddenly Sherlock's hand is entwined with his. A sharp jolt causes Sherlock to pull his hand back, as if burnt. They stare at each other for a moment before Sherlock continues. "What you did was incredibly brave and noble, John. If she can't see that, she doesn't deserve your time."

"Yeah, well, no worry about that, I won't be seeing her again. Anyway, Sherlock, thanks for listening, but I think I'm going to head to bed now."

John is up and heading to his room before he can hear Sherlock's quiet "Won't be seeing her again. Good." echoing through the empty sitting room.

* * *

2.

Several weeks and several small cases have rolled by, and Sherlock finds himself at loose ends on a Friday night again. He can hear John banging around in his bedroom, so he barges up the stairs and pushes the door open. He's greeted to the sight of John in his pants, doing up yet another new shirt. If Sherlock's eyes linger a moment too long on John's bare legs, on his torso covered in just a thin cotton vest, neither man chooses to say anything about it.

"Jesus, Sherlock, can't you knock when the door is closed?" John turns around so his back is to Sherlock, but all that accomplishes is giving Sherlock an unprecedented and surprisingly interesting view of his rear end.

"I... um... " Christ, why is Sherlock's tongue so thick and uncooperative? "I thought we could head out to Angelo's for dinner, I'm bored."

"Sorry, Sherlock, I've got a date. I'll bring you back something to eat if you'd like."

Sherlock merely grunts and turns on his heel, storming back down the stairs and leaving John to finish getting dressed in perplexed silence. About ten minutes later, John comes down the stairs smelling of yet another new cologne, and Sherlock sniffs irritably.

"That scent doesn't suit you. I much prefer the way you smell normally."

"Good thing you're not the one I'm trying to impress then. So did you want me to grab you some dinner on my way home? I'm meeting her for Thai."

With an indistinct grumble, Sherlock heads into the kitchen.

"Alright then, I'll just grab those noodles you like." And with that, John has vanished again, leaving Sherlock to sulk. He glares at his phone, willing it to ring with a new case or something. It sits on the coffee table in stubborn silence. Sherlock sifts irritably through the stack of newspapers that's collected on the kitchen table before getting strangely absorbed in a writeup on one of Kate Middleton's new designer outfits. Is this really what his life has come to? Moping over the Royal family's frocks in tabloids like an unfulfilled housewife?

He scowls and flips back to the actual, legitimate news, but there's not even a whiff of anything interesting, so he lets the paper fall to the floor and heads back to the sitting room. Picking up his violin, he plucks out a tune that suits his mood - discordant and irritating, and hacks away for a bit, until he hears the seventeen familiar heavy steps that indicate John's coming home.

John stands in the doorway, looking haggard. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I forgot your noodles."

_Comfort him, Sherlock. It clearly didn't go so well_. "John, you look tired. Can I get you a drink?"

"God, no!" John snaps, before biting down on his lip. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. You had know way of knowing…" He sits down heavily in his armchair.

"Let's just say the date was a bust. Shades of Harry. She started out quite nice, but after her seventh G&T. Maybe eighth? I lost count… I was treated to a charming discourse about all her useless previous lovers, insults about my new shirt, and awkward pawing in places I'd rather not think about. When I suggested we switch to straight-up tonic water or ginger ale or something, she told me I wasn't her mum and stormed off."

"How about some tea then?"

"God, I must look distraught, if you're offering to make me tea."

Sherlock bristles for a moment, he's being too obvious. "No, I meant if you were making some, I'd have a cup."

"Ah, there's the Sherlock I know and lo—" John cuts himself off, but the word hangs heavily in the air between them. Sherlock's heart pounds out an erratic rhythm in his chest, but he manages to convince himself John meant it an entirely platonic way. The air between them is tense, charged, until John gets up and walks into the kitchen.

"May as well get on that tea then. Can I get you something to eat?"

Sighing, Sherlock drapes himself across the sofa.

"No, thank you."

* * *

3.

By this point, Sherlock's given up hope and doesn't even bother trying to puzzle it out - it's a Friday evening and they don't have a proper case, so clearly John's going out again. He's in the kitchen, comparing the ink in two separate tattooed skin samples, when John wanders in. Sherlock feels John's hand drag absently across the back of his chair, feels the raised trail of goosebumps in line with where John's fingers accidentally brush his shirt.

He lets out a soft sigh, but John's seemingly oblivious as he fusses with his jacket cuffs. He turns to Sherlock, who looks up from the eyepiece.

"Make sure you eat something, alright? You've been working solid for almost two days on those tattoos, you need a break."

"Yes, thank you, Mother." Sherlock realises he sounds like a petulant child, but finds he doesn't particularly care. He looks back down into the optics of the microscope before he has to watch John's back as he leaves the kitchen.

Sherlock stares at the two samples side by side long enough that they start looking virtually indistinguishable. He pulls away from the microscope, about to shout to John to ask if he has any input when he remembers that John, unreliable as he is, has gone out again.

He pulls his phone from his pocket and sends a text.

_John, come home. I need your opinion. -SH_

_Not now, Sherlock. I'm on a date._

_Dates are dull. Come home. -SH_

_No. Turning my phone off now. If there's an emergency, Mycroft can find me._

It's a testament to Sherlock's mood that for a moment, he actually debates calling Mycroft and asking him to track John down, but eventually he relents. He scowls and throws his phone across the kitchen, sighing irritably when it lands on the counter and doesn't even have the decency to shatter properly.

He heads into the sitting room and slinks down onto the floor, feet resting on the seat of John's chair. He's just getting ready to get lost inside his own head when John comes barging in the door.

"Ta, Sherlock. Really."

Sherlock merely lifts his head up off the floor, studying John from an entirely new and interesting angle.

"You're welcome. What did I do?"

"Ruined my date."

"How'd I manage that? You effectively shut me up by expediently turning your phone off, and you'll notice I had the decency not to track you down."

"Yes, well…" John rubs his hand over his eyes before grabbing Sherlock by the ankles, where his trousers have ridden up. The unexpected touch on his bare skin sends strange shocks straight up Sherlock's legs, ending somewhere between his groin and his stomach. John merely swings Sherlock's legs to the side, freeing the seat cushion, and lets them fall unceremoniously to the floor with a thud. Disgruntled, Sherlock gets up off the floor and peers at John, waiting for him to continue.

"It seems that once I mentioned you, explaining that my insane flatmate was texting me, I couldn't shut up about you. Her words, not mine. It's not my fault she asked about my job, and my hobbies, and my friends, and somehow you've managed to become the nexus of all three."

Somewhere in the back of Sherlock's head, there is a tiny voice telling him to be at least a little bit remorseful - even though he has no control over John's conversations; but really, all he cares about is the much louder voice pointing out that John talked about him all evening. He fixes his gaze on John's, one hand reaching out to surreptitiously adjust John's collar. Sherlock can feel the blood-warmth of John's flesh, the flutter of his pulse, as his knuckles graze across the thin skin of his throat.

Sherlock's voice drops to a throaty murmur. "That interesting, am I?"

John swallows, Sherlock feels the motion in his fingers and draws his hand away. John's tongue is running across his lower lip, a pause a fraction of a second too long before he responds.

"Overbearing, more like it. Why do you think I'm trying to diversify?"

"Why get emotionally entangled in two separate places, wouldn't it be more efficient to just deal with it once?"

"Yeah, cause efficiency is exactly what I strive for in my love life. Would you get out of my bloody personal space and let me go to bed?"

Defeated, Sherlock pulls away, watching John square his shoulders and march up the stairs, before retreating to his own bedroom.

* * *

4.

"I'm going out again tonight." Is it Sherlock's suddenly over-active imagination, or does John actually look resigned about this, rather than excited? He's wearing the same shirt he wore last time. It's been laundered, but not new. Just worn enough that the buttons would slip open easily, with a bit of assistance from some long, violinist's fingers. Sherlock shakes his head. Won't do to be thinking like that again. He just looks at John blankly and nods.

"Oh, and Sherlock?"

Sherlock steps forward, closing the gap between them. "Hm?"

"Don't bother me unless it's an emergency." John looks up, defiant, almost challenging.

Sherlock leans in, pinning John against the wall, hands on his shoulders. John meets his eyes, the look on his face a strange mixture of consternation and… anticipation? "Define emergency."

"Unless…" John's voice catches in his throat, his gaze drops to Sherlock's lips. "Unless you're dying." And with that, suddenly, he slides out from under Sherlock's arms and darts down the stairs.

John's been gone for an interminable hour and a half when Sherlock can't take it anymore. He pulls his mobile out of his pocket and stares at the screen for a moment.

_Dying. Come home. - SH_

_Dying?_

_Of boredom. It's possible. -SH_

_No it's not. But this woman is driving me crazy, so thank you for giving me an out._

Sherlock debates ducking off for a quick shower and then realises how absurdly like a teenage girl he's acting. He opts instead to change into his red dressing gown, the one John seems to gravitate towards, and he's casually settled in his armchair, chin resting on his violin as John slouches into the flat. Seeing the violin, he cringes as if ready for an auditory onslaught, but Sherlock's got other things in mind.

He pauses for a moment before putting bow to strings, and welcomes John home with the cheerful strains of the Promenade from Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition. John smiles, a familiar combination of bemused and pleased that Sherlock's grown so fond of, and drops into his chair again.

"Thank you, Sherlock. That's lovely."

Sherlock manages to give a slight thrust of his chin without jostling the violin, as if to say _go on. Tell me about it._

"It wasn't the worst date ever, I just don't think I got more than six words in edgewise. But damned if I can't tell you what she had for breakfast every day for the past two weeks, her hopes, dreams, and aspirations from the time she was a toddler, and every accomplishment - however minor - since she burst forth from her mother's womb. If I want to listen to someone sing their own praises for two hours, I'll just stay home with you."

Sherlock merely chuckles, working the slight shift of his shoulders into the music. He lets the song taper off quietly before putting the violin down and striding across the sitting room and closing the space between them. Suddenly he's looming over John's chair, one hand on each arm of the sofa and his face inches from John's.

"Why do you do it then?"

John exhales slowly. The warm air puffing across Sherlock's cheek smells faintly of John's dinner but more of John himself. "Do what?"

"Go on all these awful dates?"

"Well, that's one what does, isn't it?"

Sherlock leans in closer, his lips nearly touching John's ear. "What then, make yourself miserable for no good reason?"

John sighs and turns his head, breaking the tense contact between them. "I'm getting old, Sherlock. I don't want to be alone my whole life."

"But you're not alone. I'm here."

"That's not the same, and you know it." He sounds discouraged.

There's something fragile and tentative fluttering inside Sherlock's chest, and it feels as though if he stays here talking to John any longer it may shatter. Without another word he pulls away from the chair and barges into his bedroom, leaving John perplexed and frustrated.

* * *

5.

Sherlock has decided the easiest thing to do is just completely ignore John's dates, completely ignore the strange way this all makes him feel. He's done it for years, what makes John any more special than anyone else?

He's settled on the sofa, feet propped up on the arm closest to the window, when John comes downstairs. Despite telling himself he's going to stop caring, Sherlock can't help passing a cursory glance over John's appearance. His jeans are freshly laundered, but considering Sherlock had him crawling through skips yesterday, that's unsurprising. His shirt's far from new - nice enough, but slightly frayed at the cuffs and collar. Most unexpected, he hasn't shaved.

"Making an effort, are you?"

Huffing, John's shoulders slump in what looks like defeat. "Let's just say after the way things have been going, I don't have high hopes for tonight."

"Why are you bothering then?"

John's face is inscrutable as he runs his eyes over Sherlock, who finds himself feeling exposed and discomfited. He's not used to being on the receiving end of a gaze like this.

"I wish I knew, Sherlock. I wish I knew." He opens his mouth again to say something else, but changes his mind and turns abruptly, grabbing his keys and phone and heads down the stairs without another word.

Frustrated, Sherlock beats his head against the sofa cushion a few times. He toys with the idea of getting up and working, but knows he'll never get anything useful done in this state. Instead, he watches the play of light on the ceiling, the sky shifting from warm gold to blue-black, the bright yellow and red tracks of car headlamps reflecting in from the street. He loses track of time again, waiting, watching. Sherlock is so distracted, so transfixed by the play of bright and dark, that he doesn't see or hear John sneak in.

He doesn't turn any lights on, just walks across the sitting room so he's standing in shadow by Sherlock's feet, silhouette outlined by the window.

"Have you moved at all since I left?" Sherlock shakes his head, curls rumpling against the sofa cushion.

"What time is it?" He feels disoriented, disconnected from everything and everyone.

"A little after midnight." When John says this, his voice drops imperceptibly. Sherlock casts a roving eye over him, studying John in the dim half-light. His posture is relaxed, no tension around his eyes, but he's not smiling. His hands are loose at his sides, fingers of his left hand drumming lightly against his thigh - no discernible rhythm. There's no evidence that his date went particularly badly, but then, it's not even midnight and he's home already, so clearly it didn't go that well either. Sherlock's at a loss.

"What… What was wrong with your date?" It frustrates him to sound so clueless, to ask such a mundane question.

"That's exactly the problem, Sherlock. There was nothing wrong. She was funny, kind, engaging, pretty… I probably could have gone home with her. And yet, here I am."

Sherlock unfolds himself from the sofa and stands up, stepping into the pool of streetlight framing John. They're close, too close probably, but neither makes a move to pull away. Sherlock can feel his breathing, foreign and erratic, in his chest.

"Why, John? Why are you here?" Sherlock realises his hands are gravitating towards John's waist and he drops them abruptly.

"I'm… I…" John stammers. "Sherlock, c'mere. There's an eyelash on your cheek." Slowly, gently, as if he's afraid of startling a wild animal, John reaches up and strokes Sherlock's cheek with his index finger. He holds the finger up between them. "Make a wish…"

"Silly childhood superstition." Sherlock smiles, pursing his lips, as if to blow it away._ Just kiss him, damn it._ John closes his eyes, and his head is tilted up ever so slightly, as if encouraging Sherlock. _Do it. Now. You'll never have a better opportunity._

The tense silence is broken by the shrill ring of Sherlock's mobile, and both men come back to their senses, jumping apart as if shocked.

"I should… um… the…" The phone keeps ringing, loud and insistent. Sherlock darts across the sitting room and grabs it off the kitchen table, attempting to compose himself before answering.

"Sherlock Holmes. Oh, hello, Lestrade. Sure, we'll be right there." He hangs up and looks over at John, whose face betrays a strange mix of relief and disappointment. "Come on, John. We're needed at a crime scene." Sherlock sighs as he slips into his coat, attempting to clear his head.

* * *

+ 1.

"No date tonight, John?"

"Thought we might stay in and order takeaway. Maybe watch another James Bond film?"

"The women of London mourn the loss of their most eligible bachelor."

"Oh, shut it, you prat. I'm just tired of this string of bad dates interspersed with ridiculous cases, I just want to relax with my best friend for once."

"Let me just text Lestrade, make sure he doesn't need me for anything."

Sherlock waits for John to head back up to his room before digging out his phone and sending a succinct text to Lestrade.

_Busy tonight. Don't bother me. Or John. Or else. -SH_

They're halfway through On Her Majesty's Secret Service when John lets out a thoroughly disheartened sigh and mutes the film, leaving George Lazenby and Diana Rigg and gesticulate in peace and quiet. He turns on the sofa so he's staring at Sherlock's profile.

"I think I should just give up on dating. I just feel like nobody can get close to me. I don't think I'll ever find anyone who can put up with our lives."

"Haven't you already?"

John swallows heavily, and Sherlock can't help stare at the wide expanse of his throat.

"I'm… Uh…" John stammers. "That's not what I meant, Sherlock, and you know it."

"Isn't it, John?" Hesitantly, Sherlock reaches out and runs one finger along the smooth line of his jaw, highlighted by the blue glow of the television screen. He shaved today, even though he had no plans to go out. It's softer than Sherlock expected, and yet still somehow rough. John's breathing is quick and shallow, and Sherlock finds himself mirroring the reaction. They stay that way for a few seconds before John pulls back.

"Sherlock. That's — what're you… ?"

Sherlock's gaze takes John in. Breath still rapid, gooseflesh on his arms, eyes wide. But his body language is open, trusting. He's apprehensive - no, not apprehensive - nervous, but not of Sherlock. The situation then? Before Sherlock has time to reassess, John's leaning forward again, bringing their faces even closer than they were before.

"Is this what you want, Sherlock? Have you thought this through?"

_God, yes, John. It's all I've thought about_. The words run through his head, but get all jumbled before they can get out. What is it about John that gets Sherlock so damned flummoxed? Without thinking, he leans forward and kisses John. It should be awkward, unpleasant even, but there's just a wealth of new sensations to catalogue. John tastes how he smells, warm and familiar, only stronger. There's a tiny snag of dry skin on the corner of John's mouth, and it's all Sherlock can do not to grab it between his teeth and pull. Sherlock parts his lips slightly, running his tongue along John's lower lip. He's seen John do it to himself so many times, surely the gesture should be comforting.

It's infuriating, not knowing what's running through John's mind right now, but within seconds he's moving his lips against Sherlock's, sliding his fingers through Sherlock's curls, and all is right with the world.

Somehow, the world shifts sideways, and Sherlock is on his back, John on top of him. There's a familiar rush of blood to his head, a less familiar rush of blood elsewhere. Sherlock can feel his prick stirring, under the thin barrier of his pyjama bottoms, exacerbated by the sudden weight of John on top of him. Can he feel it too? Does he mind? This is what's supposed to happen in a situation like this, isn't it?

Sherlock realises the panic is distracting him, his mind going a million miles a second in the wrong direction. John, kind, understanding John, who always knows what he needs, pulls back and props himself up on his elbows.

"All right, Sherlock? Too fast?"

John's eyes are wide, his cheeks flushed, and all Sherlock can think is how he wants to kiss him again.

"Maybe. It's…"

"Overwhelming?"

"Yeah, um… yeah, good."

John sits up, shifting slightly and giving Sherlock some desperately needed space. He reaches out, stroking Sherlock's knee gently, a gesture almost chaste in its delicacy.

"We don't have to do this, you know. Not unless you want to. We can take it easy. How about we put the movie back on for now?"

If John is frustrated, or upset with Sherlock, he's doing an impeccable job of masking it. Sherlock sits up, awkwardly trying to hide the slight swelling in his pyjama bottoms. John grins and grips Sherlock's knee tighter, rocking his leg comfortingly.

"It happens. Don't worry. I'm not going to take it as a sign that you want me to jump your bones right now. Relax."

"Bones? There's only one, and it's not really a…"

"Oh, for the love of Christ, Sherlock. It's an expression." John smiles, not unkindly, and lets go of Sherlock's knee. He un-mutes the movie, which is nearly over by this point, and makes a point of sitting up close enough for Sherlock to reach, but not so close that any sort of contact is going to be expected. After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock slumps over, his head falling onto John's shoulder. Despite their height differences and the awkward discomfort in his neck, it feels right.

As John's arm wraps around Sherlock's shoulders, Sherlock feels himself relaxing, feels his eyelids start to droop. He's not sure how long he's been asleep for when John gently nudges him awake.

"C'mon, Sherlock. Wake up, sleepyhead. Time to head to bed." John's face is soft and blurry, and Sherlock can't help it, he reaches up and strokes John's cheek. More awake now, what John's just said reverberates in his head. Bed. Now. Does John want Sherlock to go with him? Should Sherlock invite John to his room? Why is the protocol for this so alien and infuriating?

John, marvel that he is, seems to read the conflict fluttering across Sherlock's face. "You. Your bed. Me. My bed. Slow, remember? We're fine. We're good. We'll sort this out, all right?"

A sigh of relief escapes Sherlock's lips, even though he's not sure he doesn't want to drag John to his bed.

"Thank you, John. Goodnight."

And then Sherlock leans down, kissing the top of John's cheek, where the downy thickness of his eyelashes casts a soft shadow. Before he can change his mind and pin John to the wall, insist on touching him, being touched, right then and there, Sherlock ducks down the hall into his bedroom.

Lying on his bed, he runs his fingers across his lip, where he'd felt John just a few minutes ago. _No wonder I've forsaken all this_. He finds himself thinking._ It's so bloody infuriating_. Groaning in frustration, one hand absently running over his torso, seeking friction and contact it's never going to find, Sherlock turns his light out and rolls over.

* * *

_**Hmmm... should I just leave it here? ;)**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Oh, come now, you didn't think I'd be mean enough to leave everyone hanging, did you? ;)**_

* * *

Try as he might, Sherlock can't get to sleep. He's used to foregoing it, to wilfully avoiding it, but this is different. Sleep just won't come when he wants it to. Instead, he's been tossing and turning for hours, feet constantly getting entangled in the sheets. _Just go to him, _part of his brain keeps shouting.

Sherlock sits up, swings his feet onto the floor. Elbows resting on his knees, he lets his head fall into his hands as he ruffles his hair irritably. His thoughts are chasing each other around in his head in an infuriatingly useless manner. He wants John, clearly. Loves him? Maybe? John certainly seemed willing to reciprocate, but what if he wants more than Sherlock is able to offer? Worse, what if he doesn't want enough? Sherlock can't imagine giving himself fully to anyone without things going pear-shaped. Anyone, except maybe John. _Why is this so messy?_

He flings himself back onto the bed with a soft thud, but realises the noise seems to be continuing. Soft, muffled, repetitive noises. John's pacing upstairs then. _But why? Does he regret what happened? Is he mad that I panicked?_

_This is absurd. I'm going up._ Sherlock pushes off the bed and adjusts his pyjama bottoms. He debates putting on a shirt or robe but decides against it. John seems to favour sleeping in very little, he might be more comfortable if Sherlock's similarly attired.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, steels himself, and heads through the kitchen up the stairs to John's room. The door is ajar a small fraction, and the soft light from John's bedside lamp is spilling out onto the landing. Sherlock's standing awkwardly just out of the light, debating whether or not to knock, when John's voice carries out into the room, the door gently nudged open.

"You going to come in, or would you rather stand in the hallway all night?"

"How did you know?"

"Jesus, Sherlock. You must be frazzled, if you didn't hear the third step and the landing creak when you stepped on them. I figured it was a bit late for Mrs. Hudson to be paying a visit." John's grin is wide, the soft skin around his eyes crinkling in a way Sherlock finds utterly endearing.

"C'mon, then." John steps back into his room, settling on the bed, leaning against his headboard. He pats the foot of the bed, inviting Sherlock in. Sherlock stands awkwardly at the threshold before throwing caution to the wind and making quick work of the three long strides across John's small bedroom. He perches on the end of the bed, long legs tucked up under him like some deranged heron.

"So…" They both utter it at the same time, and the room is filled with nervous laughter. John reaches his hand out, fingers stretched towards Sherlock. Unable to resist, Sherlock reaches out and grabs John's hand, twining their fingers together. He studies the interplay of digits for a moment, the gold hair on John's fingers shining, the contrast between their skin tones less obvious in the dim light. He twists their wrists to and fro - mesmerised by the play of skin and tendon and bone, by the way two hands behave so differently from one hand alone. He realises he's gotten lost inside his own head again and looks up at John, who just smiles patiently and indulgently.

"Interesting?"

"More than I imagined, yes."

"We're not just talking about my knuckles, are we?"

Insightful, infuriating, perfect John. Sherlock sighs, lets their hands drop to the duvet but doesn't pull away.

"I'm sorry, John. I want this. I do. But…" _But you'll leave me. But I'll get overwhelmed. But I don't know what I'm bloody doing and I can't stand that feeling._

"Hey, hey. Stop thinking. There are parts of this that are just as new and confusing to me as they are to you. It'll be nice to not always be the most clueless person in the room, and we'll learn as we go - just like we always do. Living with you, Sherlock, it's never been what I expected. I'm making it all up as I go."

Sherlock can't wait any longer. He very nearly lunges at him, straddling John's hips with his knees, and pulls him in for a hot, clumsy kiss. There's a lot of teeth, and not a lot of finesse, but Sherlock can feel John's hands grasping eagerly at his waist, John's lips parting hungrily, so clearly he's doing something right.

John grabs him firmly around the midsection, and without breaking the kiss, pulls Sherlock down so they're both lying, rather than pinned awkwardly against the headboard. Sherlock pulls away, panting heavily, spots fluttering in the corners of his vision. John reaches up and strokes Sherlock's cheek with his thumb.

"You need to breathe sometimes, you absurd man. Come up for air, I won't take it personally."

Sherlock finds himself wondering what the skin at John's throat would feel like under his tongue, and rather than dignify the comment with a reply, he decides to find out. He traces John's carotid - rapid pulse, fluttering under the skin - with the tip of his tongue, and if the quiet grunt is anything to go by, John's fond of this sort of thing. Curiously, he draws his tongue upwards until he encounters John's earlobe. He wraps his lips around it, drawing his teeth lightly over the soft, plump flesh, and John shudders and moans sharply under him. Interesting. Encouraged, he traces the shell of John's ear with his tongue, probing gently, until he's whimpering and quivering.

John's hands are roaming over Sherlock's torso, strong fingers roughened by years of use, but gentle, so gentle. Sherlock rolls his hips slightly, slotting his legs neatly between John's. He can feel the steady, pulsing flow of blood in his groin, the erection coming on slower than the urgent, irritating ones he's used to, but somehow all the more gratifying for it. John, perhaps still eager from their earlier encounter on the couch, is already hard and hot and throbbing against Sherlock's hip.

Sherlock rolls his weight slightly, resting on his hip and freeing John from beneath him. Tentatively, he lets the hand he's not using to prop himself up drag lightly over John's abdomen, stroking the sparse, soft trail of hair he finds just above the waistband of his pyjamas. Kissing and licking his way back down the side of John's throat, Sherlock's hand finds its way to the prominent bulge there. Unsure of how to proceed, he cups John gently while his tongue finds its way to his collarbone.

In silent encouragement, John bucks his hips upwards, a gesture that Sherlock's body mirrors with another heady rush of blood to his own cock, fully hard now.

"God, Sherlock… I've…" John pants, attempting to compose himself. "Wanted you. Want you. So bad. Thought you didn't… Are you sure…"

"Me too, John. Yes."

With that, Sherlock grips John's erection firmly, through the worn cotton of his pyjamas, and John lets out a low keening whine, desperate for more contact. Sherlock releases him and traces from his cock, down around his balls, and back up, with one long finger.

He could spend hours doing this, exploring, mapping out John's nerves and skin and bone, cataloguing his myriad responses, but Sherlock can tell that he's getting needy, getting desperate. _There will be time_, he tells himself. He works two fingers under the elastic of John's pyjamas, pulling it slightly away from his belly. He drags his teeth across John's collarbone, across the soft, unblemished skin and across the raised, puckered tissue of his scar, before looking up, studying his face.

John's eyes are closed, his cheeks gently flushed. There's a thin sheen of sweat across his forehead, and his lips are swollen and slack, mouth open as he pants quietly. He looks so vulnerable, so trusting, so eager. _That's all for me_, Sherlock thinks. _Nobody else_.

As Sherlock lifts the fabric away from his skin, John nods, nearly imperceptibly, giving Sherlock consent to continue. Transfixed, he looks down as he pulls John's bottoms lower, exposing the soft, untanned flesh of his stomach, his hips, and finally, his penis.

He stares for a moment, nearly overwhelmed by the influx of sensory information. John's erection is proud and swollen, deeply flushed. His foreskin is pulled back, exposing the glans, a drop of pre-ejaculate already pooling there. Not that Sherlock has much comparative experience, but the next thing he notices is the girth of John's cock. The length is not insubstantial either, but it's gloriously thick, and Sherlock finds himself struck with the rather unfamiliar sensation of wanting to feel it inside him. Sherlock blinks a couple of times, shrugging the unexpected - but not entirely unwelcome - thought off.

The hair around the base of John's cock is pale, dusty brown gold, and soft, softer than Sherlock anticipated. He runs his fingernail gently through it, earning another pleased shudder from John. It's also trimmed, still thick and masculine, but tidy. Of course, John would be a courteous lover. Much more comfortable to deal with it this way.

Incapable of waiting any longer, Sherlock wraps his hand around the base of John's prick, two fingers and thumb forming a tight circle. John has been incredibly patient and understanding up until this point, but after the maddening wait and the sudden contact, he moans again and grinds his hips upwards, thrusting through the ring of Sherlock's fingers.

It's not that Sherlock has no experience with an erect penis - he's had inconvenient urges, he's taken them into his own hands, clinically and efficiently, but this… this is completely different. He's overwhelmed, marvelling at the contrast of sensations. John's length in his hand; the skin so soft and delicate and warm, so thin it feels as though it could tear open, and underneath, the solid unyielding strength of his erection, the throbbing flow of blood. Sherlock finds himself wondering what it tastes like, what it would feel like with his tongue.

The curiosity gets to be too much, and before John has time to express any sort of concern, Sherlock shimmies down the bed and slides the head of John's cock into his mouth. Subjectively, he knows his technique is going to be awkward, but from the way John's hands grip his hair - another new sensation to catalogue - he seems to be enjoying it just the same. He rolls the flat of his tongue against John's fraenulum, eliciting more interesting and pleasant noises.

Increasingly emboldened, Sherlock engulfs the entire length of John's erection, until he can feel it encountering resistance in the back of his throat. He swallows, attempting to relax the muscles, and John lets out a low, sharp cry, tightening his fingers in Sherlock's curls. This isn't entirely unpleasant, but the angle is awkward and not ideal.

Sherlock pulls away briefly, in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. Realising what he's doing, John rolls onto his side, so he's facing Sherlock, who can now lie on his side and take John in completely. He swallows John's full length again, now more able to relax the back of his throat.

"Christ, Sherlock… you keep doing that and… Oh god, you're a quick learner." John's doing his best to hold his hips still, but every so often he thrusts deeper into Sherlock's mouth. He pulls back, breathing heavily through his nose, and works his tongue around the ridge of the crown of John's cock once, twice…

"Ngh… your mouth, god, that mouth, that's gorgeous…" The corners of Sherlock's mouth quirk up around the shaft of John's erection briefly before he bobs his head back down, groaning around the girth of it as it hits the back of his mouth, again and again.

"Sher… Sherlock… Gonna, oh, shit, I'm…" The sentence may be fragmented, but Sherlock gets the gist. Unsure of how to proceed, he nearly panics again but feels John's fingers in his hair gently guiding his mouth off John's cock, moments before it starts twitching noticeably away from his body, streams of thick ejaculate splattering his stomach.

"John, I'm sorry."

"Nnhgh, no, Sherlock… It's fine. Some people never get used to it, it's why I tried to warn you. You want to try it later, we'll try later, but I figured the first time…"

"Thank you."

Now that the experience is over, Sherlock realises his own cock is still painfully hard, trapped inside his pyjama bottoms and desperately heavy in a way it's never been the times he's touched himself. He watches John clean himself perfunctorily, tossing the tissue onto the bedstand, while awkwardly debating whether to ask for help or simply go back downstairs and deal with the issue alone.

It's John, again, who solves the problem by patting the mattress in front of him. "I can't say I've got much experience with other men, but that can't be comfortable… Do you want me to…?" He trails off, gesturing at the bulge in Sherlock's pyjamas, the implication clear.

Sherlock repositions himself so he's lying on his side, facing John. Impulsively, he reaches out and kisses him again, John's lips gentle and yielding under his own, every kiss slightly more familiar, slightly more comfortable. Sherlock never understood before how people could willingly do this for hours, but he thinks he's starting to see the appeal. He nips John's lower lip gently, startled when John pulls away from him.

"Not that I don't want to see you, but maybe you could turn over? There yeah, like, that, tuck your back against me." _Of course_. Sherlock realises. _This will be easier on his shoulder._

He closes his eyes, focusing on John's breathing against his back - slower and steadier now, post-orgasm somnolence settling in. Sherlock gasps as John's fingers land on his sternum, scratching lightly. The sensations are doubled as John starts gently kissing and licking between Sherlock's shoulder blades, and he lets out a sharp gasp.

"Too much?"

"No, no… It's nice. Just. Not. Expecting it. Please, keep going." _Please, touch me, John. I need it. God, I need it._ John's hand is trailing slowly, maddeningly slowly, down Sherlock's torso, fingers tracing all the curves and indents of his muscles. Abruptly, Sherlock notices that he's grinding his hips back and forth, thrusting against John. He stops, and feels John giggle against the broad expanse of his back.

"Go ahead, Sherlock, it's fine. Good thing I'm not as young as I was once though, you rubbing that arse of yours against my cock is almost enough to make me hard again already."

John's hand has found its way down to Sherlock's groin, but he's still tracing his fingers delicately along the soft skin along the insides of his hips, down towards his thighs, studiously avoiding Sherlock's erection. The sensations are like nothing Sherlock could have imagined or anticipated, and while part of him thinks he could experience this for hours, another part of him is desperate for release.

Letting his head fall back onto John's shoulder, Sherlock groans quietly. "John, please touch me."

John kisses his shoulder, a light graze of lips and teeth and tongue, before murmuring quietly against his skin. "Thought you'd never ask. Just want to be sure this is really what you want."

All Sherlock can do at this point is grunt incoherently, which John apparently takes as consent to lick a broad stripe across his palm and wrap his hand firmly around Sherlock's prick. Sherlock lets out a loud whimper, his hips yet again thrusting of their own accord. John matches his rhythm, his hand sliding slickly along Sherlock's length over and over. It's probably not the most elegant hand job ever, or the most technically proficient, but Sherlock is reeling. His mind, always so busy and noisy, is blissfully blank, his entire existence narrowed down to the friction of skin on skin, two points of contact.

"John, John, John, John…" he's repeating it, like a mantra, like an invocation. He scrunches his eyes shut, shuddering as he arches his back, shocks running up his spine and bursting behind his eyes as he climaxes, evidence of his orgasm flowing over John's hand.

Faintly, in the far reaches of Sherlock's mind, he hears John murmuring soothing nonsense against the back of his neck.

"It's alright, Sherlock, I've got you. I've got you. Breathe."

Sherlock obeys, sucking in a raspy, shuddering breath. It takes him a second to process that it's over, that John's conscientiously cleaning them both up, stroking his hip comfortingly.

"You ok, Sherlock?"

"Yeah. Fine. That was. That. You."

"Sherlock Holmes at a loss for words, several times in one evening. I should record this for posterity."

Flipping over so he's facing John again, Sherlock glares.

"You wouldn't dare."

"Ah, there you are. Thought I'd lost you for a moment." John grins, cheeky and smug, and Sherlock is overwhelmed all over again. He wants to stay here, overnight, possibly forever.

"John, sleep now? I think I've resolved the issues that were keeping me awake."

"You… heading off then? I'll see you in the morning?" John's face is impassive, neutral.

Sherlock is crestfallen, feeling an unexpected pang at the rejection. It must be apparent in his expression, because John exhales in relief.

"Unless, of course, you want to stay. I just thought you'd prefer some space."

Relief floods Sherlock's veins, warm and palpable. "I think I'd like that."

They take a moment to untangle, to readjust their pyjamas. John rolls onto his side, facing the wall, and Sherlock hesitates for a moment before curling up in the same way, pulling John close to him.

"Is this alright?"

"Of course, Sherlock. I was rather hoping you'd figure it out."

Sherlock smiles, face resting lightly on the back of John's head. He smells of sweat and pheromones, and still faintly of shampoo. It's familiar, and comforting, and just right.

Within minutes, John's breathing has slowed and evened, he's already drifting off. Sherlock, lulled by the warmth and the rhythm of John's back pressed against his chest, feels himself falling into the deepest and most peaceful sleep he's had in a very long time.

* * *

_**Okay, now I'm really done! Thank you for all the lovely reviews!**_


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